Just a Moment
by NicolleOrgana
Summary: Post 2.19 "Bad Moon Rising" Danny comforts CJ after the episode. A slightly AU one shot.


**A/N:**

 **A slightly AU post ep for 2.19. This is what could have happened if Danny had still been around.**

* * *

CJ couldn't get the gnawing, ominous feeling out from the pit of her stomach — Toby's words ringing over and over in her ears on an endless loop.

 _"This was small potatoes. I wanna know that when the big potatoes come — are we up for it?"_

 _"Big potatoes? Toby, we ran for election. We lived through Leo and booze; Sam and prostitutes; India and Pakistan; Columbia and a failed rescue mission. Are there_ bigger _potatoes someplace?"_

 _"…No."_

 _"Toby?"_

 _"Yeah?"_

 _"Why are you lying to me?"_

 _"I'm not."_

But he _was_. She knew that he was was. She'd known Toby for the better part of ten years, and he wasn't a great liar. The way he paused slightly too long — the way he looked down and away — chewing the inside of his cheek in concentration; and also there was the nagging feeling she had that he had wanted to tell her something that he couldn't.

It was going to be bad, she thought.

It was going to be _really_ bad.

She laid down on the couch in her darkened office, eyes shut, rubbing her temples in a vain attempt to ward off the oncoming migraine.

* * *

That's how Danny found her, roughly an hour later — poking his head through the crack of her slightly ajar office door — digging the heels of her hands into her forehead.

"You okay CJ? You look sick."

She sighed, unsure if the sound of his concerned voice brought her more exasperation or relief. "Please Danny, not now."

He ignored her half-hearted protest, shutting the door softly behind him with a quiet snick.

"Really, CJ. Whatever it is — you can talk to me." His voice lowered to nearly a whisper as he approached her prone form on the couch. "Can I sit down?"

His presence must have been at least somewhat welcome, he decided, when she pulled her legs up closer to the rest of her body so that he could have the other end of the couch, never even opening her eyes — he knew she wouldn't hesitate to tell him to get the hell out of her office if she really wanted him to go.

He settled into the cushion, pulling her bare feet into his lap.

"CJ-"

"-Please don't ask me what's wrong, Danny," she interrupted him, " _please_."

"Okay."

"Thank you," her voice was thick with emotion and exhaustion — and she pondered how three years in the White House could feel like a decade.

Danny's fingers danced over her right ankle, and she let out an involuntary groan when she felt his thumb pressing into the arch of her foot.

"Is this okay?" He asked softly, ever the gentleman, always conscientious, gauging her mood — never wanting to push her ever-shifting boundaries too far.

"God, _yes_. Don't stop." She couldn't remember the last time someone had done this for her; years, at the very least. She let out a soft sigh, and tried to expel every thought except for Danny — taking care of her, worrying about her — and the feel of his warm fingers chasing the pain and darkness away, at least for the moment.

They continued that way for several minuets — silent but for CJ's sighs as Danny expertly manipulated her feet, his fingers sneaking just slightly inside the hem of her slacks to rub her ankles.

"Just tell me this," he said after a while, not stopping his ministrations, "are you okay?"

"For now," she breathed, it was vague, but the only answer she had — for him or even for herself. She tried not to think about the likely destruction and fallout that was coming — the suspicions she'd long held but never wanted confirmed; a brief moment in a hotel in Manhattan Kansas that she was never meant to witness. She hoped to God that it was something else — anything else.

"You sure?" He asked — and for the millionth time she appreciated Danny's guileless nature, his selfless worry. She'd turned him down repeatedly — flirted with him, yelled at him — kissed him only to immediately turn around and insist that there could be nothing between them. She knew she made it difficult on him sometimes — knew he knew why — but still, he kept coming back for more. He didn't stop caring, didn't stop showing up.

 _Yes, I'm sure,_ she wanted to say — but the words stuck in her throat, felt like a lie. She didn't want to lie to him if she could help it; they both knew she wouldn't — _couldn't_ — always tell him the truth, but that wasn't the same as a lie.

She remembered a press briefing, suddenly, where she'd needed to mislead the public — to save lives, conceal a covert operation — and she'd called on Danny. He'd been upset later that she chose to call on _him_ — she could have chosen to lie to any reporter in the room but she'd deliberately picked him.

No, she wouldn't lie to him now.

"CJ?" He prompted when she still hadn't said anything.

"I—" she rubbed a long finger across her forehead, brushing aside her bangs, squinting at the outline of his familiar features in the dark. "I don't really know if I'm okay Danny," she finally whispered honestly.

He squeezed her foot gently in response — and oh, how she wished that things could be different between them — easier. But for now, they both knew, this was all they could have. Stolen moments together — brief snapshots of what their future could be. And they stayed like that — giving and receiving comfort — silently in the dark.


End file.
